Imperial Summer
by Bobinsox
Summary: Colonel Arin Summers has won a war, but never killed a man. Commissar Malcolm Winters has killed men, but never his own. The Imperial Guard is a poor environment for kind souls. OC-heavy, with tons of cuss-words and violence..


Colonel Arin Summers of the 101st Arcadian Rangers hadn't been sleeping very well of late. Mostly because of the dreams- fire and death, her first battle- but also because the starship they were traveling on- the _Pacem per Tormenta_, if she recalled properly- was never truly quiet. She wasn't a hiver, wasn't used to all this _noise_. So she lay awake, thinking about their next deployment. It was to an agri-world called Lysis. Recently colonized, they had a feral ork problem for the last few decades, but now the shit had well and truly hit the turbine, so to speak.

The Blood Axes, a clan of, she supposed, not-feral orks had landed on the world to raid it. They took over leadership of the feral population and by the time of arrival they'd control most of Lysis' western continent, if the analysts were correct. Which they usually were- the analysts were some of the worst pessimists she's ever seen in action.

There was another big issue keeping Summers from sleep this time, though.

She'd been informed that her regiment was to be assigned a Commissar. Well, a new Commissar. The last one had died in her first battle, which she supposed couldn't really be construed in a way that would look good to the higher-ups.

Anyway, she'd heard it was to be a Commissar by the name of Winters, which was a bit too ironic for her tastes. He was apparently one cold son of a bitch. She smirked at that bit of wordplay as it ran through her mind, then immediately frowned again. Commissars were dangerous to have around, both because they executed personnel on the drop of a hat and because they literally executed people for things like dropping hats. It was never good for morale, and commanding officers were in especial danger.

The lights sputtered to life. Oh, well. She wasn't going to get any sleep, anyway. She pulled herself out of bed, and threw on her uniform- simple brown cloth garments and her wolf's-teeth necklace that she'd gotten from her mother before being assigned to the Guard- and briefly brushed her short blonde hair into some sort of presentable state, then made her way through the rest of the barracks to the mess hall for some sort of caffeinated beverage- a habit she'd picked up on her first deployment.

She'd been told they'd meet Commissar Winters on the shuttle, because the paperwork hadn't been completely filed yet. They were in planetary orbit, and it was only a matter of hours until they shipped out to a base planetside. She returned to her Coffee, figuring. According to the Catachans onboard, this agri-world didn't produce any good coffee- they mostly grew grains and rarely managed to get a surplus to export, in large part due to their ork problem. Thus, this deployment.

"War for fun and profit," she muttered to nobody in particular.

Meanwhile, in the Officer's quarters on the opposite side of the _Tormenta-_About- roughly a half-kilometer away- Commissar Malcolm Winters was just waking up. Outside of combat situations, he was always a heavy sleeper. Even serving with the Catachans had done little to change that. He looked sleepily around, noticing the lights were on. He glanced at the Chronometer, sighing. He had a few hours yet to kill, but he knew he shouldn't sleep in.

"Fuck _that_, " he groaned, to nobody in particular. He lay there another half hour before finally rolling out of bed. His quarters had a luxurious bathroom by imperial guard standards- he had a clean mirror above a working sink. Boy, did commissary work have it's perks or what?- and he looked into it, briefly brushing his hair into position and briefly contemplatuing shaving. He'd heard some interesting things about his next assigned regiment's CO.

Fuck it, he decided. He'd shaved before bed, and the Asgardians were ferals. They wouldn't rat him out for a little scruff.

He made his way to the Portside barracks. He figured he shouldn't leave without saying goodbye and-

Well, he recognized that odor. He turned and pulled aside the rough cloth that had been put over the portway to one of the access shafts. Sure enough, Lieutenant O'Donnell was there, smoking a LHC stick. He waved brazenly.

"Hello, Commissar," he said, with not an ounce of shame in his voice. Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"_Dammit_, O'Donnel. You can't _smoke_ here- it's an access shaft. I'm supposed to _shoot_ people for stupid shit like this."

"You're supposed to," Said O'Donnel, grinning like a buffoon and holding up a finger as if to tell him to wait, "But you like me too much. Want a hit?"

Malcolm tried to fight the smirk, but couldn't. "Not today, man. Gotta get the reassignment done with. Can't get too fucked up, y'know?"

O'Donnel frowned for a moment. "Damn, right. You're leaving. Sucks- it was just awesome having a commissar we didn't feel the need to, uh, not lend cover fire to. For old times sake, then?"

Malcom chuckled, briefly and genuinely. "Nah, man. I'm good."

"Well, shit. Hey, maybe you'll get lucky with the lady commander. Spring, was it?" O'Donnell laughed raucously, coming up to cuff the Commissar on the shoulder.

"Summers, actually," winters corrected, flatly but a little hastily. The Catachan smirked. "Please, I don't do unprofessional relationships with Guard personnel. You know that."

"I mean, you smoke blunts at camp with me and the boys. If that ain't 'unprofessional'-"

Malcolm cut him off. "Unprofessional _sexual_ relationships."

"What about you and that nice Mordian girl?"

Malcolm opened his mouth, closed it again, paused.

"...Unprofessional sexual relations during times of sobriety?"

The guardsman laughed again. "Close enough. Well, have a good one. We'll still be serving together for now, you just can't threaten to shoot us anymore."

Malcolm flashed a quick grin, "We can shoot anyone we damn well please, you know... anyway, get the hell out of my sight. I don't wanna write you up."

Malcolm turned as O'Donnell waved goodbye, with a final "You won't."

He just barely made it out of earshot before he started laughing to himself. "Asshole," he muttered. Then, regaining his composure, he made his way to the barracks to say goodbye to the rest of the regiment.

The festivities- and they were festivities, the Catachans knew how to give a going-away celebration, for sure- lasted the last hour or so. Finally, it came time to say goodbye.

The Colonel- nobody called him by his real name, which, if he recalled correctly, was Cappelli. Or Capielli, he was never completely sure- actually saluted him, and extended a hand. In the hand was a Catachan fighting knife.

Malcolm looked at him, knowing full-well what this gesture meant.

"Don't look at me like that. 'yer chainsword broke, figured ya'd want something more reliable."

Winters and the old Colonel had a relationship that bordered on familial at this point. Goodbyes were rarely this hard. Malcolm stopped to compose himself.

"Thank you. Try not to, uh, 'not cover' the next commissar you get, eh?"

the old man smiled. "No promises."

He stopped, remembering how he came to the Catachan 106th at the beginning of his service. One of the troops had gotten uppity, mentioned "bleeding him out" if he so much as thought about bringing that bolt pistol to bear. He'd unstrapped his holster and sword belt and punched the man in the face. It had been pretty smooth sailing from there. He smiled at the memory. Boy had he kicked that guy's ass.

The trooper in question grinned at him. He was still missing teeth.

There wasn't much more to say. A few more handshakes, embraces, and claps on the back goodbye and he was on the way to meet his new regiment.


End file.
